


[Human] empathy, entropy, effigy

by PearOfTheStars



Category: Asagao Academy: Normal Boots Club
Genre: Back on the metaphors bullshit, Depression, He's just sad, Just kinda like bleh, Tar as a metaphor for depression, also back on my projecting on ian bullshit, bed comfy, i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:26:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22160263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PearOfTheStars/pseuds/PearOfTheStars
Summary: The care, the chaos, the legacyAlternate title, Tar
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5





	[Human] empathy, entropy, effigy

**Author's Note:**

> I got like blackout drunk the other day and cried at a lot of people and Ian told me he was happy I was in his discord and I know he meant it as a like a general statement but it made me literally sob for hours. 
> 
> So ofc I turn around and make Asagao verse Ian a sad little shit to project again. Sorry.

Nothing burned quite like the sun after days hidden in shadow. Rays of light pierced the haze that surrounded his eyes, which in turn squinted at the unwanted intruder. He already regretted this, having half a mind to slide the blinds back closed and return to the dark. But he couldn’t; at this point, people were getting worried, and as much as he craved the solitary comfort being wrapped up in blankets in a half-conscious blur could bring him, he had to break the cocoon to ease some of their fears.

Nothing burned quite like the sun.

Ian sighed, shuffling away from the window. He dragged his feet, though they were pulled back down by tar; the black liquid soaking him, forcing him through the world with heavy steps.

He looked to his bed, the tar dripping down his forehead into his eyes softening the edges of his vision. It was an effort not to give in and bury himself in the sheets again. The mattress was soaked in tar, as well, anchoring it in the world as something familiar. It had already taken so much to get him to stand up, Ian decided he might as well try and… do something.

He made his way to the desk pushed up against the wall. He realized he was cold as soon as he sat down, but the tar on his back seeped into the chair, and he decided it was too much effort to get a jacket.

Ian pulled his laptop closer, opening the lid only to recoil as the screen lit up with full brightness. The sun was already bad enough, he decided, turning the screen down so he didn’t have to squint. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, waiting for Ian to decide what to do. Tar dripped from his fingertips onto the keys.

The only problem was Ian wasn’t exactly sure what to do, or what he really cared to do.

He didn’t even really care enough to type in his password, watching the cursor blink in the box waiting for him to enter it.

He closed the lid of his laptop, pushing it away.

Ian opened up the drawer of his desk, pulling out the papers Luke had brought him from their class.

He might as well catch up on some work.

He fished a pencil out of the drawer as well, before realizing that he didn’t even really have any interest in doing his school work. Well, who ever did? He looked at the papers, seeing his handprints in tar across the words. He’d feel guilty about waiting to do them later, but they were covered in black smears, so, for now, he just felt tired.

Maybe some other time.

He pushed his schoolwork away.

But he already had a pencil out. Maybe he should draw?

It had been forever. He hadn’t had the energy to pick up his sketchbook, it was always covered in tar. It still was, Ian noted, finding it deep in the bottom drawer of his desk. It took some effort to lift, but it was a little lighter than last time.

It sat heavy on his desk as Ian opened it, frowning as the paper seemed to grow dense with pitch liquid as he flipped through it. All the pages were ugly.

On second thought, the blank page he finally found himself on looked better than what he could add to it right then.

He closed the book and let it return to hiding at the bottom of his desk.

The chair was getting uncomfortable, now; the tar sticky against his back. But he felt too heavy to stand up.

Maybe his phone would be… something.

Oh, or maybe not. It was at five percent battery. Ian had done this yesterday, and the day before, and maybe the second day before; he couldn’t exactly remember that far back at the moment. He hadn’t bothered to plug his phone in all that time, leaving it on the edge of his desk slowly dying, occasionally picking it up to grimace at the time.

Well, here he was with nothing but the heavy tar again.

He sighed.

He leaned his elbows on his desk, rubbing at his eyes with his palms. He only scrubbed black liquid deeper into his eyes.

Ian held his head in his hands, his fingers digging into his hairline. Everything was too much effort, and his hands were too heavy. He dragged his hands down his face, leaving streaks in the tar.

Nothing was worth the energy right then, he decided. So he stood up, wandering back over to the window.

He closed the blinds.

He went back to bed.

He laid facing the wall, pulling the comforter up to his chin, clutching his hands close, tucking his knees up, melting back into the tar. It was the only thing he knew he could do.


End file.
